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Sunday, 20 January 2019

Guest Author Stephen Bentley of the Philippines, formerly of the UK.

Who
can tell a detective story better than a former policeman, or a trial
lawyer? Stephen Bentley has been both. He is kind enough to be
our guest this a week, sharing his thoughts in a 4Q Interview and
sharing an excerpt from his newest novel - Rivers of Blood.

Stephen
Bentley is a former UK police Detective Sergeant and barrister
(criminal trial attorney). He is now a freelance writer and an
occasional contributor to Huffington Post UK on undercover policing.

His
memoir 'Undercover: Operation Julie - The Inside Story' is a frank
account of his undercover detective experiences during Operation
Julie - an elite group of detectives who successfully investigated
one of the world's largest drug rings.

SB:
Before I do, may I just correct one thing. Rivers of Blood is
not novel length. All three books in the series are novellas designed
to tell a story at its natural length.

Regan?
He is not me. You need to read one of my answers below to
grasp the meaning of that. He’s British, hails from Liverpool and
has that typical humor common in that city. He detests routine,
paperwork and bureaucracy.

He
was a regular detective before becoming an undercover agent,
infiltrating OCG’s – organized crime gangs with a regular police
department. His fine undercover skills bring him to the notice of a
secret UK government department.

Regan
drinks beer, smokes cigarettes and likes the ladies. They also like
him. Owing to the nature of his work, he is unafraid to take risks
and go out on a limb.

He’s
nobody’s fool and recognizes one of the hazards of his work –
identity confusion. The somewhat controversial title of Book 1 in the
series is a nod to that state of mind but expressed graphically.

4Q:Two
of your books are now available in audiobook format. Do you think
listening rather than reading adds anything to the enjoyment of a
book?

SB:
Yes, I do have an opinion on this. My first book in the Steve Regan
series was also my first fiction book. I must confess, with the
benefit of hindsight, I could have started it in better fashion such
as more action. Some early reader reviews justifiably did mention
that. Yet, the thing is with the audiobook version, the listener
seems not to be bothered by that as they are fascinated with the
excellent narration of my story.

It
intrigues me as it seems to be the case when we read, we “hear”
our voice. Now, that inner voice may not be doing justice to the
written word. But put those same words into the mouth of a
professional narrator and it holds the listener’s attention.

4Q:
Please share a childhood memory or anecdote with us.

SB:

I
was about six and sports crazy even then. My teacher asked a question
of the class: “how many seasons of the year are there?”

I
can tell you my hand was first up. The teacher said, “Stephen, what
is your answer?” Proudly and confidently, I replied, “Two, Miss.”

“Two?”
she queried looking puzzled, “and what may they be?”

“Football
and cricket, Miss.”

The
teacher belly laughed. I did not know why or understand until she
said, “Good answer, but what about winter, spring, summer, and
autumn (fall)?”

The
penny dropped. My first real taste of embarrassment. In her wisdom,
she related this story to my parents. I was reminded of it for many
years at family gatherings.

4Q:
Rivers of Blood is the third book in the Undercover Cop series. Tell
us about the first two books.

Book
2, Dilemma sees Regan back and this time he’s alone and
undercover in a seedy area of Thailand on the trail of a Texan
expatriate, Les Watkins, the biggest drug smuggler in South East
Asia.

Using
himself as the bait, Regan attempts to score a $50,000 deal with the
Thai mafia in an effort to get closer to his target.

As
he finds himself embroiled deeper into the operation, Regan suspects
Watkins may be connected to Regan's nemesis, ruthless Mafia boss
Carlo Vitale, who has fled the United States following a triple
bombing and assassination of three crime family heads.

Besides
staying alive, Regan has other problems when he suddenly finds
himself facing the worst dilemma an undercover cop can face.

Excerpt
from Rivers of Blood, Book 3 Steve Regan Undercover Cop now on
pre-order (release date March 1 2019)

I
offered coffee. They got mugs from the kitchen and poured coffee for
themselves and topped up mine. They were both relaxed. I liked that.
Relaxed in manner and dress. Both wore loud Hawaiian-style shirts and
blue jeans. Both sported tans befitting any true-blue Aussie. They
didn’t look or act like cops. I was now also relaxed. I knew I was
with good guys, professionals.

“You
got the recording device?” Kenny spoke again.

“Yes,
and it’s working,” I said.

“Just
one thing,” said Wally.

“What’s
that?” I asked.

“You
think it best if you are tooled up when you meet this guy?” Wally
said.

“Yeah,
I do. For two reasons. One, I’m a hitman. Two, I got insurance if
it all goes to shit,” I said.

Wally
handed me a 9mm semi-automatic. I checked it out. There was thirteen
in the clip and nothing in the chamber. I slipped the safety on and
stuck it into the shoulder holster Wally gave me.

“Okay.”
I said, “I’m as ready as I’m going to be. Let’s do it.”

***

Wally
drove once more with Kenny as front passenger. I sat in the rear. We
drove for about twenty minutes to a large sports stadium. He parked
on the huge but empty car park.

We
waited. I had a sudden thought.

“Does
this fucking informant know who I am?”

“He
has no idea. He doesn’t even know we are cops. That’s how we know
he’s a top-class reliable informant. He reports back to his handler
talking about us two as bad guys.”

“Cool!”
I said.

A
six-foot five-inch giant strode toward the car. “That’s him,”
Wally said. I was happy I was tooled-up. This guy could be a handful
if it all went down the pan.

The
giant rapped on Kenny’s window with knuckles the size of golf
balls. I saw the swastika tattoo on the back of his hand. Kenny hit
the power button and the window slid down silently.

The
giant spoke, “Let’s talk over there.” He pointed towards an old
trestle table and some plastic chairs probably left there by someone
who had set up a hotdog stall on the car park.

The
four of us sat down. Wally spoke first, “Brad, this is the guy I
was telling you about. He’s a pro and out-of-town.”

Brad
looked at me and said, “Got a name?”

“I
got one, thanks. All you need to know is I’m Mr. Smith. You can
call me John.”

Brad
said, “John Smith?”

“Yeah.
You have a problem with that?”

“No,
not so far.”

Brad
paused before saying, “I got to check you over. Make sure you’re
not wearing a wire. Okay?”

“Please
yourself,” I said. Brad patted me down, checked the small of my
back then said, “Drop yer pants.”

I
unfastened my belt, unzipped my jeans and dropped them to my knees.
“Satisfied? Or maybe you want to see my dick?”

Brad
showed no emotion. He said, “Yeah, satisfied. Can’t be too sure
these days. Feds everywhere.” It was hard not to smile.

Brad
spoke again, “Right, you come with me. I’ll introduce you to the
man who’s going to fund the contract. You two can fuck off now.
Thanks for bringing him here.”

Kenny
and Wally walked over to the car and drove off leaving Brad and me
alone on the car park. ‘This is where the fun starts,’ I thought.
I was right.

No
sooner had Kenny and Wally driven off, a blue pick-up truck drove on
to the car park and stopped next to us. Two skinheads jumped out. One
pinned my arms back and the other shoved a bag over my head. It was
black and made of cloth. It stunk of petrol. I couldn’t see a
thing. Both skinheads bundled me into the rear seat of the truck. I
could feel my gun removed from the holster I was wearing. I sat and
didn’t make a sound. I heard someone say, “Get this fucking ute
moving. Let’s go!” I knew a ‘ute’ was Strine for a utility
vehicle or pick-up truck.

I
reckon it was twenty minutes before we pulled up and the driver
turned off the engine. I heard the rear passenger door open and I was
pulled out of the truck. I still couldn’t see a thing. I heard a
door opened. It sounded like a big door on industrial or retail
premises unlike a house door. I heard it close behind me with a clang
confirming I wasn’t in someone’s home. I could feel a hand in the
small of my back; it pushed me, propelling me a few yards until I
felt hands on my shoulders. I was twisted to walk in a new direction.
This all reminded me of the game we used to play as kids, blindman’s
bluff, but this was no game. I could smell cigarette smoke. I
stumbled over something and the hands pushed me down. I was now sat
on the chair that I had stumbled on a few seconds earlier. Then I
could see. The black cloth bag had been whipped from my head.

I
saw him sat behind a large desk. The desk was between the two of us.
I guess Brad and the skinheads were stood behind me somewhere. I
couldn’t see anyone except the man behind the desk. He spoke.

“Do
you know who I am?” He asked.

“No
idea,” I replied.

“Good.
I’m told you can get rid of someone for us.”

“I
can get rid of anyone you want if the price is right. That’s what I
do.”

“You
can call me Pat,” said the man behind the desk. He was about forty
years old. He was either bald or had shaved off all his hair. It was
difficult to tell which. He had a full beard that ran down to his
chest but no moustache. He shaved above his upper lip. I noticed more
than anything his cold, blue eyes. Pat stubbed out a cigarette into a
large metal ashtray perched on top of the desk. It was next to a
telephone. ‘That reminds me.’ I thought.

“Mind
if I smoke?”

Pat
nodded. I was relieved. I got out one cigarette from my pack and
pulled out ‘Jack’s’ lighter. I pressed the small button on the
base and ignited the lighter. I lit my cigarette.

This
is the conversation recorded and later transcribed for evidential
purposes:

Pat:
“You were saying. So? what’s the right price?”

Me:
“Depends.”

Pat:
“On what?”

Me:
“Is the target high or low profile?”

Pat:
‘He’s high profile. A politician we must eliminate before our
country is fucking ruined.”

Me:
“I don’t care about politics. It’s just work to me. But it
presents more risks if he’s a politician. More risks to me, that
is.”

Pat:
“How much then?”

Me:
“Twenty plus expenses.”

Pat
whistles.

Pat:
“Thousand?”

Me:
“Yes.”

Pat:
“That’s three months’ profits from our grow.”

Me:
“It’s up to you. You’re hiring. Not me.”

Pat:
“You’re a cool dude.”

Me:
“It’s what keeps me alive.”

Pat:
“How would you do it?”

Me:
“I don’t know yet who you want hit.”

Pat:
“Paul Carter.”

Me:
“And…?”

Pat:
“And what?”

Me.
Who is he exactly?”

Pat:
“A government minister, a high-up.”

Me:
“I’ll need to scope him. Get to know his movements, even when he
takes a dump. Only then will I know the best way to rub him out. I
take it you do want him dead?”

Pat:
“Sure do. Him and all the other mother-fuckers too. They are all
too soft on abbos, Vietnamese, all the other coloured immigrants.
This is a white country and will always be white if we’ve got
anything to do with it. White is might. White is right.”

I
felt myself shudder but it didn’t show. I said, “Right. We have a
deal. Twenty thousand and five expenses.”

Pat:
“Five?”

Me:
“Yeah five. Business class return, good hotel to lie low, sundry
expenses. All paid by wire to my offshore account. Fifty percent down
and the rest when the job’s done.”

Pat:
“So that’s twenty-five total. Twelve and a half up front?”

Me:
“That’s right. Here’s my card with my bank details. Get rid of
it after you have paid me in full.”

Pat
looked at the business card.

Pat:
“John Smith?”

Me:
“Yes, that’s me. If we’re finished, which we are, then maybe
one of your helpers can drop me off in the city?”

Pat:
“No problem. Brad, you heard the man.”

Me:
“One more thing. Gun please.”

Pat
handed the gun back to me and I slid it back in the shoulder holster

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Somewhere in New Brunswick. Photo by France Duguay.

Allan Hudson

About Me

I started writing later in life, inspired by one of my favorite authors, Bryce Courtenay, who began his writing career in his mid-fifties. It has been one of my most rewarding pastimes. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. It started with Dick & Jane – a primary reader my mother brought home from her work – she was a school teacher and taught me to read at an early age.

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5 Star review for Shattered Figurine

The opening chapter presents the detective, Jo Naylor, with a very important question. One she didn’t really want to answer but knows she must.

The next chapter, one year later, hits you square in the face with full on complicated and violent action as we discover what this story is all about.

Shattered Figurines is a surprisingly unusual detective story in that it doesn’t follow the usual plotline for this genre and the characters aren’t run of the mill either. The author has captured a very real element in both the story and the characters and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

I love a good detective mystery story and Shattered Figurines is one of the best I have read this year. I shall be first in the queue when the author writes another one in this series.

Shattered Figurine - a novella - Available Now!

Shattered Figurine. She sold it at a yard sale four years ago, when she was thirty-seven, and she remembers who bought it. She hadn’t given it a thought since then. In her mind, there had been no reason to. The message this morning changed that. She can’t ignore the possibility, no matter how horrific it seems. She prays silently that she be proven wrong" Click on the photo to read a brief excerpt. Thank you for your support.

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Review of Wall of War

Dark Side of a Promise

Drake Alexander Adventure - Book 1. I'm pleased to announce the first two novels in the Drake Alexander Adventures are now available as an eBook at the following outlets. Kobo, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Baker & Taylor, Playster, Book2read, Bibliotheca, Overdrive, Tolino, Scribd, 24 Symbols & Amazon. Soon to be available at other booksellers.

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Wall of War and Dark Side of a Promise is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Published in 2018 in A Box of Memories, a collection of delightful and entertaining short stories.